The Visitor
by thekittydid
Summary: Two years after Rise from the Ashes, Jake Marshall gets an unexpected visitor.


Jake Marshall Sads

You showed up unexpectedly. I wasn't even sure how you managed to track down my address if I'm honest, but I guess I shouldn't have been so surprised. You're a bright kid; it probably wasn't that hard for you.

It was hard for me, though. I got used to not expecting visitors; suited me just fine, even. My parole officer pops in once in a while, but he never stays long. He used to come in, demanding coffee and asking all sorts of questions to make sure I was staying on the straight and narrow. Now he don't even come through the door.

I got my speech ready by the time I open the door – Howdy officer. Nope, still not causing trouble here. Yeah, still doing security detail. Still dottin' my i's and crossin' my t's. Coffee? No? Alright, see ya, then. – but once I swing it open and see you on the other side, fixin' those rosie-colored sunglasses you keep perched on the top of your head and messin' with the buttons on your coat, all the words fall back into my throat and stick there like glue. We lock eyes. You look just like your sister. I wish I hadn't opened the door.

"Well…looky here." I blurt. I feel self-conscious. A 35-year-old man in a dirty tank top and jeans ain't a good look. I try to remember the last time I shaved and can't. And I know I look tired; that's all people ever tell me these days: You look tired. I am tired.

But you smile all the same, those baby blues of yours lit with excitement.

"Long time no see, Mr. Marshall!" You tell me, a big goofy grin plastered on your pretty face. You look older. I guess it has been a while. I secretly wish it'd been a little bit longer.

I lean on the doorframe. "No kiddin'." I finally reply, "What brings my bambina all the way out here? I heard you hang your hat in Europe these days."

You look confused for a minute, then adjust your sunglasses again. "Well…I don't really wear hats, but you could say I hang my sunglasses in Europe these days." You tell me proudly, and I bite back a smile, a pang of anger bubbling inside me. Damn it, child. Don't make me laugh. I'm not in the mood. "Either way, it's spring break! So I'm here visiting Lana."

Lana. Lana Skye. There's a name I haven't heard in a while, and yet I can't seem to get away from her. Lana Skye lurks in every dark corner of my mind, waiting for when I'm not paying attention. She hides in the shadows between flashes of lightning on stormy nights. Her chilly glare reflects in every window I pass. I can't even open the curtains in my apartment anymore. She's everywhere, including right in front of me now.

Lana Skye has been locked up in prison for two years, and it's never been harder to escape her.

"Um…Mr. Marshall?" You say, pulling me out of my head. You lean over a little, trying to peer into my dingy apartment. "Aren't you going to invite me in? It's good manners, you know."

Oh, man. Do I really subject this poor child to the state of my apartment? I try to think quick, how bad is it? The fact that I'm not even sure probably says a lot. There's dirty dishes in the sink and all over the living room. The bedroom's a state – I'll shut the door – and…aw, hell. This won't be good.

I nod and step aside, grinning at you. "You questioning this old cowboy's manners?" I tease, ignoring the hairs standing up on the back of my neck. "Fair warning, though: The ranch has seen better days."

"I'll say!" You blurt, letting yourself in. "Wow, look at this mess!"

You sound kind of excited. I feel kind of offended.

I shut the door and follow you into the dark living room. There isn't much in the way of furniture – a coffee table, a couch, and a TV that's balanced on an old filing cabinet I got from the precinct ages ago. There was more, but I got rid of it for rent money. Ex-con jobs don't pay real well. The lights are off, and the curtains are shut. I turn on the light in the kitchen; it's the best I can do.

You clear away a space on the couch, swiping dirty clothes onto the floor, and take a seat, resting your little bag in your lap. You look around, your eyes eager to take it all in. I can't imagine what about my dirty apartment could be so appealing, but you sweep the whole area, taking it all in, your eyes hungry for information.

 _Just like her sister._ I feel a sharp pang in my stomach, and I don't know what to call it.

"Thirsty?" I ask, heading around the corner to the small kitchen. "I got water, and…" I open the fridge and peer inside. There's a half-empty bottle of brown mustard and three eggs. "…I got water."

I hear you try to hide your giggles. "Water sounds good, thanks!" You tell me, and I oblige. You're still looking around by the time I come back with a glass of water. No ice. At least the glass is clean.

"Thanks." You say, and I drop onto the other side of the couch.

"What are you lookin' at?" I ask, running a hand through my hair. You've been here for two minutes and I'm already exhausted.

"Oh, I'm just looking." You explain. "Lana always says I should be fully aware of my surroundings. Besides, it's not every day I get to waltz right into a genuine bachelor pad! It's so…" You pull your sunglasses down to your face, grinning. "Mysterious."

Mysterious. Not my first choice in words. Somehow it doesn't sound all that strange coming from you, though.

"I visited Lana today." You say, staring me down. "…She asked for you."

My jaw tightens. I invoke my right to remain silent.

"She said you haven't gone to see her once since her conviction."

I look away.

"Mr. Marshall?"

I can almost feel my teeth cracking under the pressure of keeping my mouth shut. I glance at you; my chest tightens. You're a whole different person now. There's that same intensity in your eyes, but it's not inquisitive anymore. It's accusing. Prodding. Demanding. I feel naked.

"Are you avoiding my sister?"

You're not a child anymore. The thought rings and echoes inside my head like a bad song. You're growing up too fast, too fast for me to think up comforting lies to cushion your aching heart. I can't keep up anymore.

I get to my feet and head for the kitchen again. Waiting in the high cupboard is a half-finished bottle of Jack Daniels. An old friend. I pour myself a small glass and swallow its contents before pouring a second and retreating back into the fray, tail between my legs. You're not a child anymore.

"Yeah." I finally say, hiding behind my glass. The honesty leaves a weird taste in my mouth. "I suppose I have."

"Why?" You ask. You don't sound mad, a small comfort. "Are you mad at her?"

I shake my head. "No. That ain't it, bambina." I return to the couch and sit again, feeling heavier. "I've just been avoiding most people these days."

"…Is everything okay?"

I sigh and finish my drink again. "Okay as things can be." I tell you. It's not a lie, all things considered. "I got a job. I'm not behind bars like I probably should be. I just don't go out much no more. Reckon I'm gettin' old."

You look unimpressed. "Mr. Marshall, you're 35." You argue, but pause to mull over the thought. "I guess you are at the right age for a mid-life crisis. But don't those usually involve sports cars and girlfriends my age?"

I snort. "That an offer?"

"Uh, _no!_ Ew! Gross!"

It was gross.

"Besides, I thought you loved Lana."

I thought I knew silence, but what fell on my apartment after those words left your mouth surprised even me. The walls absorbed the sounds, holding them close to let them fester, waiting for a quiet moment alone to release them again like your sister's name and the doctor telling me Neil died slowly and the brain-tearing sounds of my own screams. Loved her? _Loved her?_ You insult me, bambina. I didn't love your sister; I _worshipped_ her. I spent every waking moment preparing offerings of evidence and just-right coffee, just how she liked it, carefully placed not on her desk, but on the side table in her office nobody thought she used but I knew better. I made up sins to confess to her in the dark, whether she heard them or not. Her touch cleansed. Her voice was a hymn. Her office was my church. Lana Skye, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. There shalt be no other gods before her.

But where was my Goddess when Neil died? Where was she when I was at the hospital, deaf to my own screaming, numb to the searing hot pain in my knuckles from one too many strikes against the wall? Where was she when I was pouring through the evidence, memorizing every page of reports down to the wrinkles in the paper, trying to mend a wrong that could never be made right? Where was she during those stormy nights alone in my apartment, where every rumble of thunder sounded just like his body hitting the floor, where every flash of lightning was the glint of the knife sticking out of his body? Where was Lana Skye when her most pious follower needed her most?

In a confessional of her own. Confessing her own sins. Washing her dirty hands of my brother's blood. Taking the blame of the Devil. To save your skin, bambina. Because she couldn't trust you enough to think you didn't murder someone you loved.

It's complicated, they say. The whole case was a complicated mess, and they're right. But even if it weren't, Neil Marshall is still dead. And Lana turned her back to me, and kept the truth to herself until that spikey-haired lawyer ripped it out of her.

I renounced my faith the day Lana lost her smile. And I will continue to believe that lie for as long as it hurts less than knowing I still feel every drop of adoration and love I did the day I met her.

You're waiting for an answer. I feel you lean in a little, your anticipation making you quiver. Or maybe it's fear. I'm not the Jake Marshall you knew, girly. I'm not even sure I'm Jake Marshall anymore.

I let out a heavy sigh, disappointed that I don't feel lighter. "I don't think it'd be a good idea for me to see her, bambina." I say finally, barely able to keep my voice above a whisper. "Why is she even askin' for me?"

You bite the bottom of your lip and sit back. "…Well, I mean…she didn't tell me outright or anything…" You lower your eyes and fidget with the strap of your bag. "But I think she wants to apologize."

You look up again, securing our gazes. "She knows she hurt you, Mr. Marshall. Just let her talk. Please. I know you're in pain, but so is she. Please give her this chance to heal a little. Maybe it'll help you, too."

I can feel a mess of emotions reaching a boiling point, years and years of agony and rage that I've been keeping stuffed in the darkest corners of my heart, telling myself I'd deal with them someday. Lana Skye doesn't know pain, I almost say. A lifetime behind bars wouldn't be proper penance for what she did to me. I don't want her to heal, I realize. I want her to suffer as much as I have.

"I don't owe your sister nothin', bambina." I tell you swiftly, getting to my feet for another refill.

I feel your recoil, feel you retreat a little further into the couch cushions. I hear the leather straps of your bag creak as you grip them harder. You must feel like I just slapped you. _I_ feel like I slapped you. I pull Jack back out of his cupboard. I'm not sure I can look at you again.

"N…No, I guess not." You admit softly. "But maybe you owe it to yourself to hear her out. Will you at least think about it? I hate seeing you both in so much pain…"

I almost laugh. Am I being manipulated? You really are a Skye girl. And you for damn sure know my weak points, or at least you know you're one of them.

I pour a double this time, but leave it on the counter.

"I'll think about it." I agree. It's a promise I know I can keep. I never stop thinking about you two.

I hear you get to your feet, and finally feel brave enough to face you again. You're smiling, at least a little. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"I go back to Europe in a few days." You tell me. "Maybe we can get something to eat tomorrow and….talk? Just us two. We don't even have to talk about Lana. I miss you too, you know."

I feel the corners of my mouth twitch to life. You should be a prosecutor, I think. You'd win the heart of every judge you faced. You're just like your damn sister.

"It's a date." I say, surprised by the joking tone of my voice.

You frown. "You're really hung up on this mid-life crisis thing, aren't you?"

The sound of my laughter is a surprise to both of us, but not an unwelcome one. You smile, and laugh too. For just a second, my apartment looks a little brighter.


End file.
